Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

Dowsing - Poem by Geraldine Moorkens Byrne

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Twitch! I think. Twitch, I beg. Stumbling over uneven ground trying to feel with rods, and see without looking and walk without falling face down in a cow pat.

I am a source of unlimited amusement to the man who can dowse. He was introduced in a flurry of West Cork accents and I am still not sure if he is Pat, or Aloysius or Maurice But he is one of these three and his two brothers also watch ancient sprites with gleeful malice the Dublin bint in her dowsing infancy.

I am not getting anywhere. My Mother can dowse without effort my own hands are clumsy they can feel the note in a cello string but they are not open to the music that is water or energy. i feel the anger of failure i am not a good loser. I consider faking it but something tells me they would not be even slightly convinced.

I am not good at this. I listen humbly while Pat or Maurice or Aloysius tells me to relax, to practice to hold, to loosen, to be more aware to be less self conscious. I vow to go home and walk the length and breadth of the park clutching these infernal rods of course I don't- they sit as I write reproaching me from the sideboard. I may be destined never to unlock their elusive secrets.